Shell Game
by aja aron
Summary: Nicholas was gone but Wesson wasn't. It didn't fit.  Nothing did.  Grant hooked Max's elbow and set a palm against his chest, flattening him back against the brick before he'd even finished rounding the corner.  "You took a hell of a chance, man."
1. Chapter 1

Universe: "Mission: Impossible 1988"

Author notes (again, for the four of you who will read this-all of you are lovely, by the way): This tale was started long ago, then set it to the back of my hard drive. Unlike "Surface" there is actually an end in mind, as well as a fully formed plot... and stuff. Crazy, I say.

This story assumes you are familiar with Mission Impossible 1988, that you are familiar with the characters, and that you've seen at least a few episodes. If you haven't seen a few episodes, though totally excessive on my part, I've included a cheat sheet for you to familiarize yourself with the characters should you be bold enough to venture in without knowing who they are. (I'm seeking help.)

Warnings: playing a little loose and fast with UN protocol... and maybe a few other things.

Disclaimer: I am not profiting from this adventure. No infringement is intended, and so the story goes.

* * *

**Cheat Sheet**

** _The Team _**_(listed in order of age, near as I can figure them)_

**Jim Phelps** is the mastermind and leader of the team. Coming out of retirement after his protégé (Tom Copperfield) was killed by a professional assassin, he decided to stay on after the killer was caught to lead his new team of young agents.

**Nicholas Black** is the master of disguise, the team's expert in acting and languages. When he isn't working for the IMF he teaches Drama at either an eastern university or prep-school. The show tells us it is an eastern university, but the visual clips they show to back the statement indicate a prep-school. I solve this dilemma by telling myself Nicholas is an adjunct professor for a small university in a small eastern town where he also teaches a class or two at a local prep school. Or... whatever. Really, not important, but the purposes of this story it's sort of incorporated into the plot that way. There is no other intel on Nicholas's personal life. No family is ever mentioned, nor how he came to work for IMF in the first place. He has a cool head, shows leadership ability, and is dedicated to his team.

**Casey Randall **was "a top designer on three continents when her fiancé was killed in a terrorist bombing." That's from the show. She helped trap the terrorists responsible and thereafter continued working for IMF. Casey was killed in action while working as an advance operative for her team. Though still struggling with her death, the team completed the mission and caught her killer.

**Max Harte** fills the role of the muscleman and team bodyguard though his skills extend far beyond this position. His brother was a POW in Vietnam. When he didn't come home, Max, apparently still in his teens, planned and successfully executed a rescue mission. In the series, during one mission set in Australia, Jim refers to him as the Aussie. Nicholas, however, is also Australian. His accent is described as mid-Atlantic, and he could ostensibly be from anywhere, but the actor who portrayed him is Australian (Greek-Australian, born and raised, if you believe what the internet tells you... because it's always right). Max is very much the protector of the team, can be both impulsive and cool-headed, and seems to really enjoy playing his acting roles in the team's missions, especially if he gets to be surly or evil.

**Shannon Reed** is a former CIA agent who joined the team permanently after Casey was killed. She sang professionally at one point in her life and uses this skill in her IMF work on occasion. Shannon also has a fear of flying in small airplanes, though I'm not sure that always existed in her character, or just came up as a convenient plot device for one of the episodes.

**Grant Collier** is the son of Jim's former teammate Barney Collier. The show tells us that where Barney left off, his son picked up. "Grant graduated from MIT at 16, where one of his professors called him the greatest inventive mind to come out of MIT in 20 years." The actor playing Grant (Phil Morris) is the real life son of the actor portraying Barney Collier (Greg Morris), and the episodes they are in together are fantastic. Grant, though very cool headed, has a somewhat reckless demeanor at times, and seems to bring out the banter in the team, particularly when paired for a task with one of the other guys.

* * *

**Shell Game**

by aja

* * *

**Prolog**

The sun stretched solidly across the blank pavement of the closed amusement park. It was early enough that the appearance of heat was only an illusion. Lingering ocean cold moved into Jim's joints as he stepped away from the street sweeper and found the tape behind the control tower to the roller coaster.

He opened the case and pressed play.

_Good morning, Jim…_

_Craig Heming is a reclusive but celebrated philanthropist who has built a wealthy empire through global industrialization. His interest holdings include manufacturing exports from around the world, including Europe, South America, Africa, and several South Asian countries where it has long been suspected that his generosity is being used to cover the fact that his empire has been constructed on bonded child labor and illegal arms manufacturing. These indiscretions were to be questioned at a UN hearing where Aban Chishti, a trade unionist working for the abolishment of bonded labor, was preparing to present evidence against him. Chishti was assassinated before he got the chance, and his evidence disappeared, frightening others within Heming's network who had agreed to testify. One witness in particular has promised to come forward, but only once he feels it is safe to do so._

_Your mission, should you choose to accept it…_

* * *

Straightening from his lean against the back of the couch, Max spoke first. "What's the plan here, Jim? How exactly are we supposed to help a potential witness feel safe to testify when we don't know who it is? And if Heming's influence is as far reaching as we think it is, how can we possibly protect against another assassination if someone does come forward? Especially when it could come from anywhere."

"You're right," said Jim, pacing around to face his team while clicking off the footage of Heming. "Heming controls his empire by being prudently loyal, and viciously consistent in creating fear. He never crosses his associates, and he makes certain they never cross him. Like Aban Chishti, those that try, know the result, and as Max said, they never know where the threat could come from, and it never leads back to Heming."

"His whole network is like a steel-armored ship, not a chink or a leak anywhere," said Nicholas, flipping a page on the file in front of him. Max leaned forward again, reading over his shoulder.

"What are we going to do?" asked Shannon.

Jim smiled. "We create a chink in the armor. If we can create the illusion that Heming is losing control, becoming paranoid or dangerous or just unreliable, his empire will cease to hold the same reign of fear he's held it together with… until now. Shake his fiercest allies' confidence in him, and the empire will begin to crumble, loyalties will be divided and Asher will testify."

"Asher?" asked Grant. "We know the witness's name?"

"Asher was working with Chishti to compile evidence. He's in hiding now, and won't step forward until he knows it's safe. But once he does, we're convinced others will follow," answered Jim. "The complication is that we're on a bit of timetable. The Commission for the UN is in session for the next two weeks, and then won't convene again for eight months. We can't take the chance of the evidence becoming dismissed or compromised in the meantime. And we need to do this in a way that shatters his network. No one can pick up where he leaves off. Heming's reign of terror needs to end now."

"Where do we start, Jim?" asked Nicholas.

Jim cleared his throat. "It's come to our attention that Heming may be brokering a deal for a shipment of illegal semi-automatics, bound for Africa. He always sends the shipments through neutral parties, and has others without his organization handle the deliveries, individuals nearly as discrete as himself. Even so, Heming maintains close control. He rotates contacts, oversees selections and routs, sometimes creating bidding wars between contacts for high risk jobs. One of these contacts is Cade Wesson."

* * *

**Part One**

* * *

Nicholas didn't dwell often on the nature of knowing people, or why he was good at it, but sometimes the thoughts crept in. Sometimes it surprised him how easily he could slip into someone else's skin without encountering resistance, how easily the facsimile was accepted by those who should have known the real from the fake.

Craig Heming's skin brought no such surprises.

Smooth.

Blank.

Ubiquitously distancing.

Nicholas had watched hours of him on tape and seen it over and over again—how Heming's unaffected stare held everyone a little back from knowing him at all, how no one would look him in the eye for more than a second.

Wearing Heming's face through the consulate party crowd, paired with a striped silk tie and an Armani suit, brought the expected courteous half-smiles and the cautious, overly-polite references to Heming's various donations and projects. Nicholas acknowledged the minimalistic attention with fleeting nods, walked with shoulders straight, and barely brushed eyes against the reticent faces he passed, glowering stiffly if anyone attempted to carry a conversation further.

Few did. And those that tried quickly took the hint.

All except Cade Wesson.

When Wesson met him near the champagne table and pressed a cool glass into his hand with flattering eye contact, it was jarring. Nicholas stared back, tipped the accepted drink up with stiff fingers and didn't let his expression change. "Wesson," he greeted.

Wesson smiled with scrutiny, clicking his teeth as he opened his mouth. "I'm so glad you could make it," he said. He hooked a glass off the table for himself and glided it up to his lips without looking away once. His voice was raspy, off, like a cold was setting into his throat.

Nicholas feigned boredom, breathing it out through his nose. "Glad to be here." They tinked glasses, the tiny sound of crystal echoing against marble floors.

Wesson rolled a shoulder toward the swarming mass, darted his eyes out and around, then returned them with intensity.

"Something wrong?" asked Nicholas. The hairs at the base of his skull itched uncomfortably against the trap of his mask.

"Not at all." Wesson blinked back at him, expression steady. "I think," he said, "if you are willing, our chat would be better completed in the den. It's become a little too crowded out here for me." He smoothed a hand down his neck, tiny wrinkled lines folding across his chin.

Nicholas twitched an eyebrow aristocratically, a gesture completely Heming, but the warning coil in his gut was all him. "I don't believe our conversation need be that extensive," he answered. He fought against the urge to glance at Max. He didn't want to give Max away and would if he looked, the way Wesson was watching. "I'm not a man who rehashes details. You, of all people, should know this. A simple yes or no will do. And if you can't," he paused, letting a hint of threat hiss under the words, "there are others who can."

"I can," Wesson insisted. "You know I can. But I think we have more to discuss than our previous arrangements allowed us." His smooth hand arched toward the hallway on their left invitingly. "I have a proposition for you, and I'm quite confident it's not one you'll say no to."

Nicholas set his champagne glass back on the table, jutting his chin up the way Heming would. "The details of our arrangement have already been discussed. I want no part of any other proposition."

Wesson's fingers went back to his neck, rubbing below his ear, like the skin was itching him there. "If you'll just allow me five minutes, I believe you'll be very interested in what I have to say." He lowered his voice and rocked forward and inch. "Concerning one _Asher_ David."

Nicholas blinked.

He kept his expression imperialistic and impassive while his molars rubbed together. The prickling at the back of his neck increased. He moved his eyes smoothly over the crowd, passing them over Max without letting them rest on him, registering the nod Max returned all the same.

"It will be worth your while," Wesson pushed.

"Fine," Nicholas agreed, dipping his chin half a millimeter in concession.

Wesson flashed a smattering of too-polite teeth. "After you," he said, stepping back to open the way. "It won't take long."

"I imagine it won't." Nicholas smiled blandly. "In fact, it would be better for you if it didn't. I don't like wasting my time." He moved, setting his feet stiffly toward the yawning dim of the hallway, one hand crossing to his breast pocket, fingers touching briefly at the communicator folded inside. He threw one last glance toward Max as Wesson stepped to his shoulder.

"Don't worry. I'm well aware of how you work and what's important to you." The words had an edge to them. A wryness. They didn't feel right. Nicholas flicked his eyes sideways, observing warily the smooth planes of Wesson's face. Light from the wide den doors slipped over them, splitting the man's features in half, drawing out the smile, sharpening the nose.

The light cast both their shadows back into the bright party as they walked.

The snap of cold tile rebounded below their shoes.

The sound of a ticking clock ground steadily to their left.

A sharp sting bloomed in Nicholas's neck, sending a spiral of dark through his vision.

Then nothing.

* * *

tbc


	2. Chapter 2

**Part Two**

* * *

"Max, calm down," insisted Grant, folding taut fingers around his communicator. "It hasn't been that long, and Jim and Shannon aren't back yet either."

"I know, Grant, but Nicholas wasn't supposed to be gone at all and he is. I've checked both floors, checked every room. He's nowhere."

"Okay, okay," Grant said, then once more for good measure, "okay." He hunched over the wide table in front of him, eyes on his computer. He punched a key and watched the signal from Max's communicator beep on screen.

Nothing from Nicholas. No sign. No hazy blimp.

"Still no signal?"

Grant closed his eyes. "Listen to me, Max, go through it again. When's the last time you saw him?"

"Thirty minutes ago," Max breathed. Grant could hear the heavy expansion of his chest. "Nicholas was talking to Wesson, right in my line of sight, right according to plan. Then Wesson started talking about a proposal. Something about Asher. I don't know… I couldn't hear exactly. That's when we were getting the interference." Max paused, taking another controlled breath. "Then, they walked down the hallway, both Nicholas and Wesson, and that's the last I saw him."

"Okay," Grant said again. He opened his eyes, punching another button on his keyboard. "There's still nothing from his communicator, but take it easy—probably just the interference we were getting. What about Wesson?"

"He's not here either. He was. He came back out of the hallway about five minutes after he and Nicholas disappeared. I thought I'd see Nicholas behind him but I didn't. I waited. Then I started looking. I went down the hallway to see if he'd be there, and there was nothing. Not even an exit. It's like he just vanished. I went looking for Wesson after that, but by then, he was gone too."

"Okay, okay," repeated Grant, feeding off Max's frustration, starting to freak out a little. "Hang tight, I'm going to tell Jim-"

"Tell me what?" Jim stood in the doorway of the converted bunker, Shannon behind him, both still dressed in evening wear, frown lines between their eyebrows.

Grant spun around. He met Jim's serious eyes and sighed. "It's Nicholas," he explained. "After you left with the real Craig Heming, Nick went into the back den to talk with Wesson. He never came back out."

Shannon stepped forward, clack of her delicate shoes light on the cement floor. "Maybe the meeting just went long?"

Grant jerked his chin to the side. "No. A few minutes after they went down the hallway, Wesson came back out but Nicholas didn't. Max says he's looked everywhere. And now he can't find Wesson either."

Jim scratched his temple, smooth finger tapping at his eyebrow. "What about his communicator?"

Grant shook his head. "It's not working, Jim. We were getting some kind of… intermittent interference. When he and Wesson stepped into the hallway we couldn't hear him at all anymore. I could still see his position from the computer, but the signal was faint." He leaned over the keyboard and punched a few buttons, waving a hand at the screen with a force of calm. "And now, nothing."

Shannon leaned a fist against the table, eyes tracking the blinking dot that represented Max. "What could cause that—the interference?"

"I thought it was electrical."

"Aren't our communicators resistant to that kind of interference?"

"Normally?" said Grant. "Yes." He shifted near, shoulder to shoulder with her as he held out his communicator. "Our technology is advanced enough to resist interference, but some out there are starting to catch up with us. The consulate just underwent a massive security overhaul. In many of the rooms they installed pulse generators… like white noise but with an extra kick, meant to interfere with bugs, deter espionage. I thought it was that."

Jim frowned, flanking Grant's other side. "But now, no signal at all? Nothing?"

"Nothing," Grant said, feeling his mouth constrict around the empty word. He cleared his throat. "It's like Nicholas turned it off completely after he went down the hallway. I don't know."

"What about Max?" pointed Shannon. "His signal looks strong enough."

"His was breaking up too, but not as much. Come to think of it, the same time Nicholas's went off, Max's seemed to stop having problems."

"Grant!" barked Max, voice echoing through the sound feed, loud in the cement room.

The three of them turned to look at the speaker, as though it would help them see Max's face.

"I've spotted Wesson." They heard clacking in the background, heard Max shift, a mumbled _excuse me_, a smattering of crystal murmurs behind his voice. "He looks like… He's headed out the side door. I'm going to follow."

Grant looked at Jim, checking his face.

The frown lines stayed solid, but after a moment Jim nodded.

Grant turned back to the computer, holding a steady sideways watch on Jim as he punched the button. "Okay, stay on him, buddy, but keep your line open."

"Got it."

"Shannon," said Jim. "You'd better check on the real Mr. Heming. We may have to keep him under longer than we planned. If Nicholas is still masked… if he's still there or comes back, I don't want to risk two Mr. Hemings being seen at the same party."

"Right, Jim." Shannon started for the door.

"Grant, take the limo and head toward the consulate. If Nicholas has been compromised, we can't risk Max out there alone. He'll need backup."

"On it, Jim. What'll you do?"

Shannon paused near the exit, turning to listen.

Jim set a thumb to his eyebrow. "I'm going to make a call. I want the specifics on the consular security updates. I want to know what they were for, and if they were really the cause of the interference with Nicholas's communicator. It may be that there is more going on at that party than we've been told."

"What are you thinking?" asked Shannon.

"I'm thinking that right now we don't have enough information to think anything," answered Jim. "And that you two better get going."

"Right, Jim," they said together.

Grant picked up his jacket and started following Shannon through the doorway.

"Grant," Jim stopped him. "You and Max… be careful."

Grant nodded, solemn set to his solid jaw. "We will."

* * *

tbc

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	3. Chapter 3

**Part Three**

* * *

Max stepped around the brownstone arch then jerked back behind it, set his shoulders low, and tilted his head down just enough to see. A stripe of lamp light angled over the hedge leading into the gardens, painting bright the shiny tips of Wesson's shoes. The intense edge of a cigarette glowed against his face, curl of smoke rising into the light as he jutted his sharp chin up to the sky.

"Max," Grant's voice hissed softly, metallic sounding through the communicator.

Max drew himself further behind the brick and muffled it into his hand. He double checked Wesson's position then lifted it to his lips. "Yeah."

"Anything?"

"Nothing yet," he answered quietly. "He's just standing there. Smoking."

"Where are you?"

"South side of the consulate. Near the entrance to the rose garden. Where are you?"

"Getting closer."

A gate squeaked. Max eased down and re-angled his view. The scuffle of expensive shoes against cobblestone stretched faintly across the courtyard. Wesson was stepping through the iron fence lining the rose garden. "Grant, he's on the move again."

"Where?"

"Don't know. Nowhere, probably. He's been walking around in circles. He seems agitated." He sighed. "No sign of Nicholas."

"Okay, hang tight. I'm almost to you."

Max clenched his teeth together. He eyed Wesson's shadowy outline, his lazy stance and the glowing tip of his angry cigarette—eased down like he planned to stand there and smoke all night, all week… possibly all year. It was getting them nowhere. _Where the hell was Nicholas?_ The itch of impatience danced antsy under Max's skin. He took a deep breath. "My line's still open," he returned, voice just the wrong side of cavalier.

"Wait, Max, what are you going to do?"

Max was already stepping out from the arch, stiffly straightening his jacket as he moved into the open.

"_Max,_" Grant hissed.

He clicked off the sound of Grant's voice, left the audio on, and tucked the communicator back into his pocket.

* * *

Wesson turned jerkily at the tap on his shoulder, face scowling as he sucked another breath of smoke, the pock marked dimple on his cheek tucking into a deeper line.

"Excuse me," said Max, his most elegant tone, playing up his Australian accent, voice cultured but easy. Flashing the silver tag on the jacket that marked him as consulate staff, he continued. "I'm sorry to bother you, but I've been asked to deliver a message to Mr. Craig Heming. I was told it was urgent, but I can't seem to find him anywhere. Would you, perhaps, be able to tell me where he might be?"

Wesson eased his shoulders down, dropped his cigarette and rolled it under his toe. "Why would I know?" he asked. Despite the smoke, his voice rolled out smooth and resonant.

Max flexed his fingers, but kept himself from reaching out or making a fist. He kept his face neutral. "Several of the guests saw you speaking with him. And I was told you'd be the most likely person to know where to find him."

"You were misinformed, or the guests who spoke to you are blind. I haven't seen or spoken to Mr. Heming all night."

Behind Wesson, easing out around a manicured hedge, Grant's face appeared, tense jaw and dark eyes visible through the shadows. Max held eye contact with him for a moment then looked away, back at Wesson. "Funny," he said steadily. "They seemed certain."

"Well, they were wrong. Now, I'd like to finish my walk, in peace, if you don't mind?" Wesson reached into the breast pocket of his suit, freed a silver case and withdrew another cigarette, fumbling with his lighter.

Max didn't move.

Behind the hedge, Grant glared.

Max coughed pointedly, refocusing on Wesson. "I was given the impression that you have business dealings with Mr. Heming. That you know him quite well. Is that true?"

The lighter finally sparked, flame glowing stark against Wesson's face, brightening his dismissive eyes. "As well as anyone knows him, I guess. Which is to say, not much. See, for all his projects and charities, he's not the warm and cuddly type." He closed the lighter and stared at Max coolly. "Nor am I. And yes, we had business dealings. Our delegations hold some common interests. I was supposed to meet with him tonight to discuss them, but we seem to have missed each other. Is that enough information for you, or are you going to keep bothering me? It's been a long evening, and I'm not feeling well."

Max opened his mouth.

Grant's chin tilted down, sharpening his glare.

Max conceded. "Thank you," he said, straightening his jacket. "I'll just look for him elsewhere." He turned, fingers folding around the lapels of his own coat, a physical gesture of self-restraint, and started to walk away.

"Hey," Wesson called.

"Yes?"

"What was the message?"

Max paused.

"The message to Heming—what was it?"

"Sorry, I was told it was for his ears only."

"Come on. I helped you, you help me. I'm looking for him too. What was it regarding?"

Tumblers moved in Max's brain. "It was regarding a change of plans for a shipment Mr. Heming has been overseeing. A personal shipment." He cocked his head to the other side. "And you didn't really help me at all, did you?"

Wesson coughed a laugh, eyes darting back to the sky. "Guess I didn't."

* * *

Grant hooked Max's elbow, set a palm against his chest and flattened him back against the brick before he'd even finished rounding the corner. "You took a hell of a chance, man."

"I had to find out _something_," Max reasoned calmly, dropping his hands to his sides.

Grant felt his muscles simmer. "You could have waited until I was closer. If we've been compromised…"

Max didn't say anything, features genuinely patient in a way they hadn't been with Wesson.

Grant took a steadying breath. Then another. The fire in his eyes dampened. He patted Max's chest once in apology then drew his hand back, rubbing it down his own face.

Max put his hands in his pockets, dipping his chin, watching Grant and waiting.

Grant threw his gaze to the side, staring at the night, the parking lot, the curve of the distant street. The garden walkway was deserted, but a distant fringe of important sounding voices reached through the hem of the consulate window—carrying on carelessly and improvidently after apparently having swallowed Nicholas whole. The atmosphere was too serene, reminding him of late night viewings of Hitchcock films with his father. _The Saboteur_, _North by Northwest_—all featuring the hidden dangers lurking within an innocent looking crowd. Nicholas in the midst of it, there, right there, and then vanished.

Max tipped the crown of his head against the brick, banging it once.

Grant breathed deeply and cleared his throat. "Wesson said he hadn't spoken to Heming all night," he pointed out.

Max swallowed visibly, returning Grant's look. "Yeah," he agreed. "And he's acting pretty calm for a guy who maybe just…"

"Yeah." Grant blew a breath out, chest hitching down, expanding again as spoke. "And if he didn't… if Nicholas isn't…" He paused, controlling his voice. "Whether he's involved with Nicholas's disappearance or not, after your meeting with him he's going to think that Heming has maybe been dealing with someone else. Then he's going to put two and two together and figure out that you aren't just a messenger."

Max shrugged. "Jim will make it work," he said. "The plan is to discredit Heming anyway. Wesson believing the agreement's been broken can work for us."

"That's not the _point_. I mean, where the hell is Nicholas?" Grant jerked his palm up, gesturing out at the night. "_Wesson_ was talking to him, so we're following Wesson. But Nicholas was masked as _Heming_. We have no reason to think Wesson wanted to do anything to Heming. He has nothing to gain by it—everything to lose. So if he is involved, if he did something with Nicholas… if he took him, or… who does he think it is, Heming or Nicholas? And why? We don't know what we're dancing with here, Max. We could be in real trouble."

Max kept his hands in his pockets and dropped his chin, waiting Grant out again.

Grant turned, counting slowly in his head. Finally, he shifted, slumping against the wall next to Max, shoulder to shoulder. In the distance, they could still see the occasional burn from Wesson's cigarette, a sporadic spark in the dim.

"Funny thing," said Max after a moment, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Wesson. I almost believed him when he said he hadn't spoken to Heming. If I hadn't seen him talking to Nicholas with my own two eyes..."

"Yeah," said Grant, looking sideways.

"Buddy," breathed Max. "What the hell is going on?"

* * *

tbc

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	4. Chapter 4

**Part Four**

* * *

They'd used rope, heavy loops around his wrists, knotted tight, then wound up around his arms and shoulders, like a live vine, a man eating snake, tight like a cobra.

His skin rubbed and pinched when he drew air. He worked to keep his breaths shallow as he tried to bend numb fingers up to feel the knots.

His legs weren't tied at all and he heeled his shoe against the base of the chair, trying to see if the wood would wobble any. It creaked as he kicked but didn't bend. He kicked again and felt his head turn cloudy, a thin line of pain running from his eye to his neck. Sucking a reflexive breath, he felt the ropes tighten, constricting dangerously across his chest, burning against the expanse of his lungs. He clenched his teeth together and hissed air carefully, again, then again, and again, until his breathing steadied to a shallow pace, and the fog misted down from his eyes.

The room was empty. Drab brown walls. Unfinished power sockets with wires hanging out. A wood floor and a solid oak door with double bolts. One light bulb, stained with flecked paint, glowed down from a high ceiling.

No window.

It was hot.

Sweat trickled through the putty latex edge of his mask, seeping to the surface.

Seconds later, a groaning creek sounded. He jerked his head left and watched the double bolts on the door slide backwards with a snick. The door swung wide. Cade Wesson strode through, a smirk on his lips. Behind him, nothing but the blank wall of a dark corridor—no help in telling Nicholas where he was or why.

Wesson tracked his gaze and smiled. He let go of the doorknob and gestured back. "Looking for a way out?" he asked. "Door's open. Be my guest."

Nicholas hissed another shallow breath, but kept his mouth closed.

"What, no questions? No demands for explanations? No insults?" Wesson strode closer, tisking his head side to side until he stood just inches from Nicholas's knees. "How un-_Heming_-like of you."

The backhand was swift, hard—it snapped Nicholas's head back, made his teeth tingle and drew deeper the jolting line between his eye and his neck. It was rough enough to tear a corner off his mask, and was followed swiftly by another and then another.

He tasted blood, stark on his tongue as the light in the room dimmed and spun. Through the kaleidoscope of fog, he heard Wesson laughing—deep, sharp, with no sign of the rasp in his voice that'd been there earlier. Too hollow. Too smooth.

Nicholas coughed, gasping. Cold fingers touched his sagging forehead, then gripped his chin up, digging under the remainder of his mask to claw it away.

"You were the first one I found, you know," Wesson said next, leaning down, inches from Nicholas's face. A hand snaked up the back of Nicholas's head, fisted into his hair and pulled, straining his neck—the sharp recoil cinching the ropes tighter around his chest. "On a flyer for a _prep school play_ of all places. _Professor_ Nicholas Black. Professor. I didn't expect that. I went to the play twice just to make sure it was you. You have no idea how long I'd been looking." The fingers braided tighter, pulling harder. "Tell me, does the school know how you spend your free time?"

Nicholas couldn't feel his fingers. His arms tingled like they were on fire. He struggled to swallow, to breathe, fought the dark and the nausea and widened his eyes, catching the curls of saggy skin below the man's ear, just slightly off color from his neck. "You're not Cade Wesson," he whispered. "Who are you?"

The man laughed again, low and vicious. "Someone who doesn't like to lose," he grit.

Abruptly Nicholas's hair was released.

The following backhand sent him and the chair both clattering sideways, smashing jarringly into the hard wooden floor, darkness crashing down on top.

* * *

tbc

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	5. Chapter 5

**Part Five**

* * *

The phone booth on the corner was forlorn and unused. Placed under a sputtering streetlight, it glowed intermittently, leaking yellow over Jim's vision as he gripped the handset closer to his ear.

"We're aware of the security updates," the voice on the other end of the line was saying, crackling through the scrambled filter Jim had attached to the wires. It was a familiar voice. The voice from the tapes. "They're routine in most embassies now, but to our knowledge, IMF technology remains impervious to them."

Jim turned his head. "And that's all you can tell me?"

There was a long pause. "We're looking into it."

They knew something.

Light flickered bright through the side of the booth then dimmed abruptly—a car driving past the lip of the alley with its brights on. Jim pressed the tips of his fingers to the glass, staring out at the street. He spoke carefully. "A member of my team…" He stopped, cleared his throat and started again. "My team could be in trouble. The mission could be in trouble. If there's information I don't have, I need it. We need to know what we're up against."

"We'll provide you whatever we can, Jim, but it will take some time. We'll notify you when we have something, but we can't do it over the phone."

"I understand. How long?"

"Twenty-four hours." There was another pause. "Be careful, Jim." The phrase was followed by the quick click of a disconnecting line, the dial tone treading steadily after, vibrating into Jim's hand. He dropped the phone, stepped back, and pulled the scrambler from its attachment—too roughly. It clattered against the base of the booth as it loosened.

He stood motionless, mind clicking through the possibilities, the plans, the angles. He came up empty. There was too much they didn't know. They were shooting in the dark while his team was out there, fumbling for targets and standing exposed. One of them missing with no reason why.

He tucked the scrambler back into its holder and folded it into his pocket, thumb brushing his communicator as he did so. He pulled it out and stared. After a moment, he pushed the button that should have connected him to Nicholas, and listened to the silence.

Another car moved past the alley, wheels rolling over loose gravel, lights brushing the black asphalt.

Making a decision, Jim cleared his throat and activated the link to a different frequency. This time, fully expecting an answer.

* * *

Max returned two-way sound to his communicator. "Jim," he said, then checked his watch. Sixty-seven minutes since he'd last seen Nicholas. He refocused, tracking his eyes to where Grant was strolling through the parking lot. "Jim."

"Max. Any sign?"

"Nothing. We're still tracking Wesson. So far, it's not leading us anywhere."

"Nothing at all?"

Max rubbed a hand up the back of his neck. "If we do have anything, we're not liking the implications." He looked in the other direction, at Wesson in the rose garden, and said his next sentence carefully. "If the man we're following did something with Nicholas, he's not acting the part." He pulled the communicator away from his lips and waited for what he was suggesting to sink in.

"You saw Wesson talking to Nicholas?" Jim finally responded. The tone of his voice reflected Max's inference, but he was waiting, like he needed Max to say it.

Max released the air from his lungs. "I saw someone who looked like Wesson talking to someone who looked like Heming."

Silence.

"Jim?"

"Gut feeling?"

Max closed his eyes. "Wesson isn't involved. Not the one we're following." Frustration knotted his muscles as he said it, because if Wesson wasn't involved, who was? Saying it aloud felt like shutting down their only lead.

"Someone's using our playbook," said Jim.

"Is it possible, Jim? What did you find out about the consulate?"

"It's being looked into. Where's Grant?"

"Setting a tracking device on Wesson's car… just in case."

"You can see him?"

Max stiffened his shoulders, hair itching taller across his scalp. He looked again at the parking lot. There were rows of shiny bumpers lined together, colors meshing, reflecting lamp light across the blacktop. But no motion. No Grant. He felt his chest expand, felt blood drag up to his head—felt his eyes pulse with it.

Then, movement. Grant. Weaving between a groomed Interceptor and a classic BMW.

Max whistled out through his nose, letting his ribs relax. "I can see him, Jim. I'm watching him now." He kept his eyes pinned as Grant neared Wesson's bumper and accidentally-on-purpose dropped his keys, hunching low to attach the tracker to the car, then glanced briefly over his shoulder to check Wesson's fuzzy outline. "Grant's okay," Max relayed. "He's setting the device. Jim—"

"Good." A crackle of static snapped across the connection. "If he goes anywhere, we'll know. In the meantime, I want you and Grant to get back to the bunker. Both of you."

"What about Nicholas? We can't just—"

"We're not. But we can't help Nicholas until we know more about what's going on… and you know it."

Tightening his grip on the com-device, Max flexed his jaw. Grant's shadow straightened in the distance, head rising behind a white Lexus.

"If this is a set up…" said Jim.

"I know," answered Max. A shift of wind wound around the corner, soughing roughly through the trees. He tapped his heel against the wall, staring steadily as Grant weaved back to him. Jim was right, but what he was asking felt like abandonment.

"Max," prompted Jim.

Max swallowed. Grant jogged softly up to him, wind sweeping at his jacket, tugging slow ripples across the sleeves. "I hear you, Jim. I've got Grant, now. We're on our way."

Grant's eyebrows creased.

Max clicked the communicator off, tucking it into his pocket. He met Grant's eyes and patted a hand stiffly against his shoulder.

* * *

tbc


End file.
